


closed fist would be fine

by orphan_account



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Coming In Pants, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Slut Shaming, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:14:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27074815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Peter's life at Midtown High was normal, up to a point — that point being Quentin Beck. Quentin Beck was Peter's upperclassman, and his own personal bully from hell. Still, as Quentin forced him into the school's abandoned bathroom, forced him to his knees, did Peter really want to fight it?
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 75
Collections: Spiderio Mini Bang 2020





	closed fist would be fine

**Author's Note:**

> My fic for the 2020 Spiderio Mini Bang — organized by the wonderful [quietcarnage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietcarnage). The great and awesome art that accompanies this fic was done by [Adam](https://twitter.com/johnnywilcocks). Thank you for translating my insane babbling into a coherent and sexy image.
> 
> Beta'd by[piagnucolare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/piagnucolare/profile) — without them I'd be a dead fish flopping in the dirt.
> 
> Anyway, this is very self-indulgent (again); I'm a sucker for bullies, bathroom sex, and public blow jobs.

It wasn’t that Peter hated Midtown High — the opposite, probably. He wasn’t popular, but he had some friends. He was one of the top students in his chemistry and chemical engineering classes, and most, if not all, of his teachers loved him. And the other kids in the photography club liked his work — even encouraged him to pursue it more seriously, which he brushed off with a nervous laugh. He liked photography, sure, but he wasn’t confident in it. He wasn’t confident in _much_ really.

Maybe that’s why he was easy to spot for people like Quentin Beck — who, coincidentally, was walking down the hallway right in Peter’s direction.

Quentin Beck was significantly more popular than Peter was. Even in a “gifted and talented” charter school like Midtown, there were still cliques. It was a high school after all.

So, Quentin Beck. He was popular, and people liked him. Well, some people liked him. The robotics and the mechanical engineering teachers loved Quentin. He was brilliant when it came to technical stuff like that — Peter preferred working with beakers and liquids. And he was popular with girls, something Peter at first thought he envied. Quentin was conventionally attractive after all — tall, dark brown hair, blue eyes, strong jaw. He was nice to most people, offering friendly advice or critique, or words of encouragement. People _liked_ him.

But Peter knew better.

As their eyes met, Quentin’s friendly smile grew sharper, showing a hint of teeth. Peter immediately ducked his head, pretending to rifle through his backpack as he stood in front of his open locker.

Quentin broke away from the group he was walking with, going toward Peter. Peter tried to ignore him, he tried his _best_ , but he just couldn’t when he felt the heat of Quentin up against his side, his back.

“Don’t forget — at lunchtime,” Quentin whispered in his ear, his breath hot against Peter’s neck and cheek, making him shudder. Seemingly satisfied, Quentin smirked, walking back to his group — but not before shoving Peter, all of them laughing as they walked away.

Midtown High had bullies, like any normal high school — and Quentin Beck was definitely the leader — the guy n _o one_ in the whole school wanted to fuck with. Quentin was nasty, but he was also a master at manipulating the teachers and other adults around them. It helped that his parents were both very wealthy, and had made some _hefty_ donations to the school. The administrations seemed to sweep everything under the rug.

(Peter doubted they had swept anything like _this_ away.)

The first half of the day seemed to go by too fast for Peter’s liking. He counted his blessings he had no classes with Quentin, being a year under him. As lunch grew closer and closer, Peter’s heart beat grew faster, his whole chest feeling _tight_. His leg bounced up and down under his desk, and he couldn’t concentrate at all. As the bell signaling lunch rang, Peter shoved his books off his desk and into his backpack. He nodded to MJ, who was in his math class with him, and ran out of the room.

He didn’t even stop at his locker, instead walking past the rows of lockers, past the classrooms and the lunchroom. He heard the wave of chatter coming from the cafeteria, and growing quieter as he walked past it. He shifted his bag on his shoulder, swallowing a thick lump in his throat, hands gripping the straps tightly.

No one was at the door to the boys’ restroom as he walked up to it. Hardly anyone used this bathroom, especially at lunch, being at the opposite end of the school from most of the classrooms. A “perk” was that it _also_ was far away from the teacher’s lounge and administration offices.

The door squeaked as he opened it, walking inside, head tilted down and looking at his sneakers. He took a couple of steps inside, and then stopped in the middle of the room.

“You’re late.” Quentin's voice seemed to echo in the practically abandoned bathroom. Peter didn’t look up at first, still staring at his shoes, mouth heavy with unsaid words. What even _would_ he say? Beg for Quentin to stop? Threaten to tell a teacher? What would be the point? He heard Quentin's shoes on the tiled floor as the older boy took a step forward, and Peter kept his head down — from either anxiety or defiance. He couldn't really be sure. .

It wasn't unexpected when Quentin slapped him across the cheek, but it still made Peter's face scrunch up as his head whipped to the side. Quentin just snorted, and Peter finally turned his gaze up at him.

"You never listen. I swear, you're just asking for it," Quentin said with a sharp laugh, grabbing Peter's face, palm under his chin and fingers digging into Peter's cheeks. He shook Peter's head, causing Peter to make another face and wince. "It’s like you _want_ me to hit you."

Peter could only glare at Quentin, with his face squished by Quentin's larger hand, lips puffing up into a pout. Quentin laughed again, and Peter’s face heated up in shame, cheeks coloring. He squirmed, grabbing Quentin’s wrist, squeezing it.

“Beck...” he stammered, the word coming out in a strange, quivering way. Quentin only smirked down at Peter again. It made Peter shudder and squirm under him. It was like Quentin could x-ray him; like Quentin knew something about Peter, something that Peter couldn't identify yet.

 _Well_ , he thought to himself, the shame still a dull ache in his abdomen. _That’s not a lie, is it? Quentin did see something in you._

Quentin finally let go of Peter’s face, but didn’t step back. He looked down at Peter, dull amusement on his face. Peter ducked his head, and they both stayed quiet for a beat, until—

“Get on your knees, Peter.”

There wasn’t even a flinch, just Peter hanging his head lower. He grabbed onto the edge of Quentin’s hoodie, and slowly — _slowly_ — sunk down. He could feel the cold tile of the dirty bathroom floor under his knees. It was hard and unforgiving underneath him, just like Quentin Beck above him. Peter stared ahead, looking directly at the front of Quentin’s jeans, at his crotch.

Quentin wasn’t even hard yet. He usually wasn’t, leaving that up to Peter. More humiliation to pile on top of him. Peter stared, still gripping the hem of the purple and green hoodie Quentin wore, if only to keep his hands from visibly shaking. Peter knew they were shaking though; they always did when it came to this.

Sitting back on his calves, Peter looked straight ahead, eyes lingering on the button of Quentin’s jeans. He heard Quentin snort, could imagine the roll of his eyes, before the older boy hit the side of his head. It wasn’t anything hard, just a swat of Quentin’s palm, but it still made Peter grimace.

“Dawdling, Pete?” Quentin’s voice was teasing, mocking. “Hurry up.” That time, his voice was much firmer, not leaving any room for discussion or disobedience. Peter shot a weak glare up at Quentin, but the older boy only gave a snort. Quentin tangled his fingers in Peter's hair, yanking on it roughly, pulling Peter so his face was pushed into Quentin's crotch.

"What? Wanna savor it, Peter? Take your time and enjoy it?" Quentin's laugh seemed louder than it really was — harsh in his ears, his head suddenly heavy. Quentin was grinding Peter’s face against his clothed dick, and Peter winced, inhaling sharply, squeezing his eyes shut. His hands went to Quentin's thighs, pushing his head back. He only was able to pull back because Quentin _let_ him, and Peter knew that.

Hands still shaking, Peter's fingers worked at the buckle of Quentin's belt, the clink of the metal too loud in the empty bathroom. The same with the zipper, the harsh sound almost echoing off the walls and tiled floor. Peter's fingers curled over the hem of Quentin's pants and his boxers, and pulled them down.

Quentin's dick almost hit his face when it bobbed free from his clothes, centimeters from Peter's mouth. Peter couldn't help but take another sharp inhale, taking in the smell of it. Quentin's cock was pressed against the side of Peter's face — huge and hard and heavy and _hot_. It felt like heat was radiating off the velvety skin of Quentin's dick, searing Peter's face.

He shot a look, brief and nervous, up to Quentin — but Quentin was unmoving and uncaring as ever, looking down at Peter with that same smug expression.

Peter let his eyes fall back down to look at Quentin’s dick as he opened his mouth. He'd rather not keep looking at that expression as he did this. Peter wrapped his fingers around the base of Quentin’s cock, pumping him once, twice, before holding it still. His tongue came out, lapping at the head of Quentin's dick, before his mouth followed, the head of it going past his lips. He felt both of Quentin's hands on his head now, but they didn't move him — just resting there, as a reminder. Closing his eyes, he continued.

Peter's mouth slowly inched down the length of Quentin's cock. He was only semi-hard when Peter took him in, but his girth was filling up Peter's mouth in that familiar way Peter knew. Both Peter's hands moved to fist in Quentin's pants as he concentrated on breathing through his nose. Quentin always smelled and tasted the same, sensations that seemed to both short circuit Peter’s brain as well as send it into overdrive.

Quentin's cock was hot and heavy on Peter's tongue, and he ran it over the underside of his length. He let himself linger there for a long moment, feeling the vein on his tongue. Saliva was pooling in his mouth, starting to drip down his chin. And then Peter finally hollowed his cheeks, sucking loudly — just like he knew Quentin liked.

Quentin would enjoy this even if Peter did nothing but open his mouth and push out his tongue. When Peter did the things Quentin _liked,_ however, then Quentin went easier on him.

And, if Peter stopped lying to himself, he would admit that he _wanted_ Quentin to enjoy it.

He heard a loud moan from above him, and Peter's eyes opened, looking up. Quentin now had his eyes closed, head tilted up toward the ceiling. Peter let his eyes shut again, and repeated the action, slurping noisily on his cock. He really couldn't lie to himself anymore right now.

Peter _wanted_ to hear Quentin's moans; liked feeling Quentin's fists in his hair. He shifted on his knees, his own erection pressing uncomfortably against the front of his jeans. He breathed heavily through his nose, bobbing his head as he slowly took more and more of Quentin's length into his mouth each time. Quentin was practically _growling_ , his hands doing more than just laying on top of Peter's head now. He was gripping Peter's hair, pulling Peter down further and further down on his dick.

When the head of his dick hit the resistance of Peter's throat, Peter gagged loudly, spit dribbling from the corners of his mouth. Quentin laughed at that, and Peter squeezed his eyes shut tighter.

"Come on," Quentin grunted, shoving Peter down more. "I know you can take it in."

Peter panted as Quentin forced him down, again and again, forcibly bobbing Peter's head up and down on his cock. Each time the head of his dick hit the back of Peter's throat, and Quentin seemed to relish in the way he made Peter gag.

And Peter sat there and took it, clinging to Quentin's jeans like a lifeline.

Finally, something gave, and Peter felt his air cut off. He blinked, eyes watery as he looked up at Quentin. Peter was pushed down, Quentin’s entire cock getting shoved down his throat. Quentin was grinning down at him, and Peter swallowed around his cock. Peter's nose was pressed against Quentin's stomach, against the light dusting of hair there. He couldn't close his eyes again, even as Quentin's visage swam with unshed tears in Peter's eyes.

"There you go," Quentin cooed, almost sweetly. "I knew you could do it."

That did it. Peter let his eyes shut as he gave a strangled, muffled moan; felt the wetness from his eyes travel down his cheeks. Quentin didn’t let up, now that he got what he wanted, and rammed down Peter’s throat each time, again and again. Peter whined, drool spilling from his mouth, face a mess.

“Such a fucking slut,” Quentin repeated, moaning. “Getting off from choking on my dick.”

Peter let out a muffled whine, fingers holding on tighter to Quentin’s jeans. He sat there, still, as Quentin used his mouth and throat like a glorified cock sleeve.

It was then that the toe of Quentin’s sneaker pressed against the front of Peter’s jeans, putting pressure on his cock. Peter flinched at that, Quentin not letting up on the pace at which we forced Peter’s head up and down.

“Desperate little cock whore.” Peter only whimpered more. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, Peter.”

Peter let out a muffled sob around Quentin’s cock, but obeyed him all the same, eyes opening and craning his head up at much as he could. He knew he looked like a mess — Quentin had shown him as much, snapping pictures of him on his phone. Peter half expected Quentin to have his phone out now, pointed down at him, but he only looked up at Quentin’s eyes.

The pressure on his dick grew, Quentin pressing down on his erection with his foot. Peter moaned through it all, even when the press on his dick became painful.

“You’d take anything I’d give you — wouldn’t you, sweetheart?” Quentin said to him, more of a statement than a real question, one hand carding through Peter’s hair. Peter could lie to himself and almost call it affection. Peter looked up into Quentin’s blue eyes and nodded as best he could with his mouth stuffed full of Quentin’s cock.

Quentin smiled at that, wide. Peter whimpered again, his dick twitching. Quentin had slowed down his pace by now, just rocking his hips into Peter’s open and abused mouth. Peter’s tongue ran along the shaft of his cock, let it swirl around the head when he pulled out and licked at it.

“God.” Quentin laughed again. “Who knew I’d be so lucky to find a cock hungry bitch like you.” His tone was as affectionate as Quentin Beck could get. Peter drank it up, knowing this was as close as Quentin got to praising him.

Instead of just Quentin rocking into him, Peter started to bob his head of his own accord, holding onto Quentin’s jeans as leverage. Quentin groaned louder, the sound rushing into Peter’s ears, making his dick _hurt_ from how much he wanted to cum. Sometimes Quentin was nice enough to let him cum during their “sessions”; other times he left Peter to take care of it in the stall alone. Peter desperately hoped this time it was the former — his dick was _hurting_ from how hard he was.

Just then, Peter’s head was stopped by Quentin yanking his hair, pulling his head back. Peter let out a whine, Quentin's cock slipping out from his mouth. Peter's mouth was wet, drool and precum spilling from his mouth. He panted, cheeks red, lips sore and puffy and eyes teary.

"Quentin—" Peter was cut off by the feeling of Quentin slapping his dick against his cheek, whimpering pathetically. Quentin shifted his hips, growling as he grabbed a fistful of hair at the top of Peter's head, jerking his head back. "Shut up," Quentin hissed, one hand around his cock, the sound of skin against skin loud as he jerked himself off furiously. "And open your mouth. Stick your tongue out." Peter let out a wet hiccup, before he did what he was told, opening his mouth and letting his pink tongue poke out. He let out a small whine as he felt the head of Quentin's cock hit his tongue, aching for the taste, before it was pulled away again. Quentin kept jerking himself off, the head of his dick bouncing against Peter's tongue, against his lips. All the while, Peter kept his watery eyes on Quentin's face.

"Fuck, that's right," Quentin hissed. Peter could tell by the way his face contorted, by the way his voice became low and breathy, that he was close to cumming. "Keep your fucking mouth open. Desperate little cumslut."

Peter could only let out a long, affirmative whine, mouth held open like it was. He wanted it, just like Quentin said — wanted to feel the heat of Quentin's cock on his tongue, to swallow his cum down. He wanted to be hit and fucked and used by Quentin, and he let out a shaky whimper, trying in vain to tilt his head forward as Quentin kept a grip on his hair.

Just like how Peter couldn't keep his eyes off Quentin, Quentin didn't dare look away from Peter. Peter could see the lust, the aggression in Quentin's eyes, and it made him shiver. Finally — _finally_ — Peter could hear the harsh grunts that meant it was time, and he shut his eyes, moaning.

Quentin's cum was hot — so hot that for a second Peter thought it would burn him, brand him. A lot of it landed on his tongue, thick and almost bitter, but he didn't dare pull his tongue back in; not until Quentin told him.

The rest of it landed across his face — Quentin always seemed to cum _so much_. Peter's body jerked, and he sobbed again, eyes fluttering open. He could feel the cum on his cheeks, over the bridge of his nose — fuck, there was even some on his hair. Quentin moaned, hand still working over his cock as he milked out every last drop, making sure it all got on Peter.

Peter looked back up at him, even as Quentin's eyes closed shut. Almost as if on muscle memory, Quentin wiped the head of his dick over Peter's cheek, cleaning himself off. Peter's throat worked as he thought of what Quentin might think of him — like he was just a cumrag for Quentin to use.

Quentin finally opened his eyes, looking down at Peter. He looked content, his cock soft as he held it in front of Peter's open mouth. Quentin smiled — though it wasn't exactly kind — as he tucked himself back in his pants with one hand. Then he reached a hand into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. Peter wasn't surprised.

"Say cheese," Quentin teased, voice cooing at Peter as the sound of the camera click went off, making Peter wince slightly. Quentin shook his head by the hair in a warning, and Peter immediately stilled. Quentin seemed preoccupied with his phone, when he glanced back at Peter.

"Swallow." The command was there, no room for argument, and Peter did so — pulling his tongue back in and swallowing the thick, bitter, _hot_ , liquid. Quentin watched him, enraptured, and Peter could almost preen at the attention.

"Good boy." Quentin patted Peter's head — _like a dog_ , Peter thought idly — before he put his phone away, zipping his pants up and buckling his belt. Peter blinked, swallowing again and biting his bottom lip.

Quentin laughed, shaking his head, able to read Peter's mind. He pushed his foot forward, and Peter almost choked as the toe of Quentin's sneaker pressed against his hard cock.

"Come on, Peter," Quentin purred out, voice silky. "Get yourself off."

Peter sobbed again, pressing his face into the denim of Quentin's pants, his hands grasping at Quentin's legs. His hips rocked, moved against the sole of Quentin's shoe, the pressure on his cock feeling _incredible_. He could feel Quentin's hand in his hair, scratching his scalp and petting him as the Peter rut against his shoe, and Peter let out a wet moan as he finally was able to cum — rutting against Quentin like a dog.

Laughing again, Quentin tucked a piece of Peter's hair behind his ear, and Peter slumped against Quentin, tired and boneless. He could hear Quentin let out a soft hum before stepping away, letting Peter fall over limply on the bathroom floor.

"See you tomorrow, Peter." Quentin's voice could almost be considered affectionate, before he left the bathroom, Peter hearing the door open and then swing and slam shut. Peter could feel the cum on his face drying, the wetness spreading in his boxers — and he smiled.


End file.
